I’m sick. And I’m a terrible patient. Seriously - the first sign of a sniffle, I am one grumpy chick and you’d think I was pounding on death’s door. But here’s the thing - my husband likes to fix things and that includes me when I’m sick. When I’m sick, I don’t want to be fixed. I want to be left alone to groan, whimper and blow my nose in peace, but it’s so hard to tell someone who wants to help that you just want them to be completely silent and stay out of the way.

So earlier in the evening, he cooked & presented my salad and pizza to me on the couch. And yea, I was seriously alright with that bit of excellence! But then he wanted to “be close”. He wanted to sit on the couch WITH me. Ug. At this point I was fed and watered so I really just wanted to wallow on the couch with my knitting and my new book Drunk, Divorced & Covered in Cat Hair (Laurie Perry, you are my blogging hero). But he had been nice enough to make sure I wouldn’t die of hunger, so I’ll throw him a bone.

I guess I wiggled around enough to send him over to the love seat in the first hour of my death watch. I moaned and groaned and belly-ached some more, then the cold medicine kicked in. I contemplated adding a little wine to the situation because if nothing else, I’d sleep even better. Soon, I realized my husband was strangely silent. His 6′4″ body hanging lifeless over the love seat. It was a sad sight, my friends, sad indeed. He looked like he was deep in thought.

“What’s wrong, Sweetheart?”

“I think you made me sick.”

Oops. It’s one of those hazards of living with another human being. We share a bed, we eat off each other forks, drink out of each other glass and sometimes (get ready for this), we even share a toothbrush so it’s inevitable that we swap germs too. Still, I feel bad for the big lug. I know our vows said “In sickness & in health”, but it’s just a lot more fun “in health”. Sickeness involved snotty tissues, frizzy hair and copious amounts of sweat.